


The Holy Tide

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Holiday, M/M, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, Dean blames Sam, kind of. He confesses to hanging the mistletoe during the Christmas dinner, complaining that no one -- with a pointed look at Dean -- made use of it. Dean has left him in the charge of the eggnog because someone competent had to take care of the ham (they really are pulling all the stops this year and it makes Dean’s heart sing. Or maybe he actually hums Mariah Carey over mashed potatoes.)</p><p>In which the extended Winchester family celebrates Christmas and good things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holy Tide

 

The… thing hangs above them, passing down a silent sentence. They both look up at the same time and back at each other, eyes locking as Dean feels a flush creep up his chest. They _can_ walk away; there is no one around the library to mock them for chickening out-- no, they _should_ walk away, slowly, actually. Dean’s not sure who hung the damn thing in the entrance anyway. It definitely wasn’t him, even if he did think about it, however briefly. He abandoned the idea when he took notice just how often he was bumping shoulders with Sam on their way in or out of a room, so, no. This plan could have backfired, although Dean is pretty sure he wouldn’t have any qualms about bolting in that situation.

Dean catches himself staring at Cas’ slightly chapped lips, reddened from all the time they’ve been spending outside recently, mostly throwing snowballs at Dean while Dean shoved said snowballs underneath his collar. “Mostly”, because the rest of the time he effectively pinned Dean down to the snowy ground and returned the favour with a smug grin of his face, though he did apologise profusely when one snowball ended in Dean’s pants. _That_ , Dean explained to him, was forbidden warfare. He failed to mention that snow somewhere around his crotch was actually an unexpected blessing because denim or not-- plus winter jackets -- Cas would have encountered the hardness in his pants at some point in time and that Dean did not want to explain. Or think about in other moments than steamy showers and groggy hours when he blinked away sleepiness with his fingers wrapped around his dick.

Still, given how chapped his friend’s lips are, he probably should have included that raspberry lip balm in his gift. He licked his lips for they have gone dry too, a slow swipe of his tongue, only a little for show.

 

The past few weeks have been good on him, an occasional hunt here and then but Dean hasn’t been on a lookout much. He has gathered his small family in the bunker, Cas the cherry on top and the only trip he had in mind for now was the one for a christmas tree. And he and Cas have been… good. Catching up. Talking and cooking, even if Dean swore he wouldn’t let him near the coffee machine ever again after the first mishap, after Cas repeated the slushie machine experience in the bunker kitchen. The smell still pertains though, giving the whole vicinity a cosy feel and Dean doesn’t mind that. Some things, such as talking about their fuckups, watching Game of Thrones and comforting each other about night terrors are easy -- it’s acceptable even for Dean Winchester to rest his head on his best friend’s shoulder at 4 am (and then return the favour), when night reminds him too much of the grime of hell; and something you don’t speak in the light of the day. It just nests somewhere in your heart.

Some, like taking Cas to the shooting range and sidling up behind him to adjust his pose, like Cas barging into the bathroom while Dean is furiously jerking off to the thoughts of said intruder behind a thin shower curtain because he had left his book there; like controlling his intake of evening whiskey around Cas because it’s easy to say something that coils in his chest, has been for a couple of years now and has now taken a coherent form threatens to slip out, uncontrolled. It’s bad enough that once Dean might have mentioned that yes, he is not 100% straight. More like, 50%, you know Cas? Or 60%. He actually began counting before Cas smiled at him sweetly and said, _“Of course I know. Don’t worry about it, Dean._ ”

“So. We should probably…” he gestures at the mistletoe. “I mean, you know what it means.”

“I’m aware of cultural implications of meeting underneath the mistletoe, yes.” Cas shifts uncomfortably, stepping from one foot to another, glancing at the plant and back at Dean with the familiar tilt of his head. “We did agree to do a proper Christmas this year, since neither of us three have ever done one.”

Dean can only nod and try to ignore the way Cas is staring at his mouth instead of his eyes, like usual. He’s the one who alternates. “I don’t know if it can beat the actual real thing, but they didn’t have eggnog back then so I’m not sure it counts.”

“Precisely. And it wasn't in December.” 

“Livin’ up to the holiday spirit, then?” There’s a nervous chuckle to his voice, a smile that’s a bit too wide but he can’t seem to hide it.

“If you want--” “Yeah, sure--” They step around each other awkwardly, Dean’s mind racing -- they probably shouldn’t go for the lips, right? Obviously. Except that they almost do, both tilting their heads in the same direction, all fumbling and cautious. Dean puts his hand on Cas’ shoulder, all sinewy and strong, his fingers flexing on the taut flesh and he barely registers the soft touch of Cas’ mouth on his cheek; he closes his eyes for a second and a small sigh escapes his lips. It is his turn there, and he leans in, escaping the hot puff of breath against his ear. He aims badly, his lips pressed too close to the corner of Cas’ mouth but he doesn’t seem to mind. The soft kiss lingers, or so it seems to Dean as he inhales the soft scent of Cas’ flowery shower gel (Dean only uses it because Sam’s musky one just _stinks_ ); stubble tingles at his lips, and he loves it. He pulls back slowly. His friend doesn’t seem to mind that what Dean just did definitely breached some boundaries of a friendly peck on the cheek; or maybe he doesn’t know he should.

“Sorry, man, I’m not-- I’m not great at this.”

 

“I doubt you’re anything but spectacular at kissing, Dean,” Cas utters completely deadpan and Dean flushes red, the tips of his ears included. “Given your vast experience. I wouldn’t know.” 

Dean runs a hands down his face in an attempt to hide his frustration (Cas is flirting with him _Oh my God_ ) and his smile. “Well, you just got a glimpse.”

“It was very nice.” Cas gives him this shy, crooked smile of his, when he’s not sure it’s completely appropriate to display this kind of emotion; it seems to pull at Dean’s core, unwinding him, until every tendril of him is filled with this golden warmth; like Dean’s a good thing that happened to him.

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Cas replies and released Dean’s wrist, which he’s been holding on to all this time, fingers wrapped loosely around the arm at his side.

 

❆

 

Somehow, they get lost. They know they will find their way to the bunker eventually but for now it’s just Sam and Kevin dragging a small pine tree back home through ankle-deep snow. It happens-- maybe it’s when Cas follows a rare bird he spots somewhere and Dean follows, or maybe they lose sight of Sam and Kevin when they see a deer and wade deeper into the woods because hell, who doesn’t want to see Bambi in real life? By the time they realise it’s just the two of them and fresh snow crackling underneath their boots, they are far away from where they came. They keep going; they’re still warm in their clothes, warmed up from marching and sun isn’t close to setting yet, and because Dean is five, he rolls the perfect snowball; he aims it at the back of Cas’s head but it’s also when the fallen angel turns to Dean and starts talking-- and the snowball ends up smack in his face. Castiel is less than pleased; Dean finds out he can deliver a blow just as lethal and then tackle him to the ground, shoving his face into the snow, unrelenting and climbing onto Dean’s back, holding Dean’s wrists in his hands.

His grip isn’t strong at all and Dean could shake him off very easily, but he doesn’t. He waits until Cas bends down all the way to his face and almost presses his lips to his ear. His breath is hot against his frosted skin, biting.

“Dean?” He can _feel_ Cas smirking. He mumbles something incoherent, bucking his hips lightly so that Cas presses his chest flush against his back, losing the balance. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m not going to let you go until you say yield. These are the rules. Sam was very strict about them.” He was. Cas discovered very quickly it’s difficult to say when you can barely breathe.

“Yeah, I get it.”

 

They stay like this for a while, just the silence of a snowy forest and their breathing, rapid and warm, forming clouds in the chilly air. Even through the layers of thick fabric Dean can feel Cas’ heart -- actual heart -- hammering in his chest something about it makes him bite back a soft whimper, an urge to roll them over and kiss the hell out of that frost-bitten face.

“Aren’t you cold, Dean?”

“A little.”

“Should I--”

“Yield, okay. Yield.” Dean turns his head to give Cas a faint smile. He _is_ getting colder now, even moreso when Cas’ weight is lifted off his body. They’re both shivering by now, light dying out quickly so they stumble to the bunker. If they sling their arms around each other for warmth as they walk, no one has to know.

 

❆

 

In retrospect, Dean blames Sam, kind of. He confesses to hanging the mistletoe during the Christmas dinner, complaining that no one -- with a pointed look at Dean -- made use of it. Dean has left him in the charge of the eggnog because someone competent had to take care of the ham (they really are pulling all the stops this year and it makes Dean’s heart sing. Or maybe he actually hums Mariah Carey over mashed potatoes.)

Except that in the flurry of preparation, cleaning the bunker and decorating the tree and getting rid of the fucking mistletoe, Dean has forgotten that Sam makes the eggnog extra spicy. Which he doesn’t notice when he drinks it to wash down the gingerbread cookies that Cas and Kevin decorated -- Cas painted some Enochian good luck sigils on them with the icing. It looks a little weird but also endearing, especially when everyone gets a custom one. He won’t tell Dean what’s on _his_ \- _“it’s practically untranslatable, Dean, but it’s only good things”_ but Dean catches him looking away and back at Dean, nervous. It makes him feel bold so he grabs a large cookie and scrawls a personal message for Cas, a crooked “ _ALL I WANT 4 XMAS IS U :).”_

“It’s just a song.” Dean drums his fingers on the long table before reaching for his last slice of pie. “It’s not like I want you wrapped up with a ribbon under that tree, alright. A Game of Thrones book set is enough.”

“I know. This is what I got you. They’re used copies though,” Cas says, apologetic as he twirls the cookie in his hands. He grabs a napkin and wraps it around the pastry and Dean beams at him.

“Thanks. That’s… that’s really great.” He moves a seat closer to Cas, grabs the eggnog with him. “You ruined the surprise though. I’m not gonna tell you until morning.” Because that’s the spirit and because Dean doesn’t want to tell Cas he got him stupid things - warm socks with birds on them, two really cool novelty t-shirts (Dean might be planning on borrowing them) and a lame bracelet, the kind he used to wear when he was younger but has lost over the years. He wishes he got Cas something meaningful, but it turned out it was very difficult to shop Christmas gifts for your best friend you might be a little in love with. Have been for quite a while. Everything seems either inadequate or blatantly obvious about your true feelings.

“Sam said I should get you a pink anal vibrator, but I assumed he was joking,” Cas tells quietly, sipping his drink slowly, eyes focused on some point behind Dean’s right ear.

Dean almost chokes on his eggnog, sputtering liquid all over the table, wheezing as it goes down the wrong pipe. He’s red in the face and luckily he can blame the drinking mishap on this one.

“You’re getting better at this, Cas. I’m proud of you,” he mutters when his breathing is back to normal, patting a friendly hand on Cas’ shoulder -- except his hand stays there, lured in by his friend’s sinewy bicep and warmth. He’s wearing a red and blue plaid shirt (official Winchester dinner dress), this time his own, not Dean’s. And Dean can’t stop staring, can’t stop holding on. Cas reaches out and Dean thinks for a second he’s going to shake him off and move away; but he gently places his palm on Dean’s wrist and smiles.

 

“Thank you. I’m getting the “hang” “ -- Dean can hear him speaking with quotation marks, since his hands are too busy to make the gesture in the air -- “of it, I think. If something is crude, overtly sexual and refers to penetration, it’s usually a joke.”

 

Dean laughs at that, too, loud and bright. He can’t remember the last time he felt this good, and he’s not even counting the pleasant buzz of alcohol, although it’s fading now. Probably when Cas died and then lived and then almost lived _with_ them before it ceased to be. This lasts longer, a few weeks already, with Ezekiel out of the picture and Sam getting better and Cas a permanent resident of the bunker, with his own room and towels, even if he spends more of the time in Dean’s room rather than his own.

“Couples can give each other presents like that, though. But we’re not one, so it’s a joke.”  This is a weird thing to say when you’re in your friend’s very, very personal space, talking and laughing in low voices, breath into breath.

Cas falls silent for a while and Dean searches his face for a sign of rejection; he mulls over his words, lips thinning. “Nora thought we were.”

“What?”

 

“A couple. Or used to.” He moves away, now, getting up and leaning over the table to get some desserts and when he sits back, he is a few inches further away from Dean, his frame rigid. “She assumed you were, _the jerk ex-boyfriend_. That was her exact words I believe. And that we’ve all been there with bad break-ups.”

Oh. Dean’s face falls and he take a long gulp of the eggnog to mask his-- embarrassement? He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling right now. He and Cas talked it out; there were apologies and declarations of them being unnecessary; half-choked sentences and bodies pressing together and it felt like coming home for both of them.

“So I guess you told her about me.”

“I…  might have spoken in generic terms about a friend and what happened between us.” Cas fidgets with his glass. “I was very angry with you then. More angry than you deserved and-- I shouldn’t have done that. Talk about you in unflattering terms to a stranger. I told her you’re definitely not a jerk, of course.” Cas looks straight at Dean again, nervousness in the curl of his lips against his teeth but his voice is soft. “You’re a good man.”

“That’s what you’re upset about?” Dean laughs. “No, man, that’s… That’s okay. I get it.” And because he’s feeling bold, he reaches out and squeezes Cas’ hands, where they lie folded in his lap. He wants to point out that Cas corrected Nora only on the jerk thing, not the boyfriend thing. It makes him feel a little giddy and he’s not sure if it’s in a good way. Is that how they look to other people, strangers?

“Seriously, it’s fine. I guess it explains why she gave me the “I’ll be watching you” thing before we left her house.”

“She’s been asking after. Whether you’d visit again.”

“Hm.”

 

He has, in a way. He has come to ask if Cas will go home with him and he watched his friend pick up all of his belongings, a sleeping bag, a toothbrush and some clothes and put them in Dean’s duffel, the duffel in the trunk. And then refused to leave without a proper explanation from Dean -- so they sat on the curb for two hours while Dean talked and explained and apologised once or twice. And then they went home.

“I’d like to go see her sometime. She’s helped me out a lot.”

“Sure.”

 

Dean’s almost on the edge of his seat. He wants to ask Cas why he didn’t correct Nora about the nature of their relationship -- she probably wouldn’t have believed, if he’s being honest and were in her shoes -- but could have given his best effort. He wants to ask. He needs to know but the answer might not be what he’s hoping for; it might be just a Cas thing, something he didn’t find relevant enough to correct. He just didn’t want Nora to think Dean was a jerk because he thinks he’s a _good man_. Dean sighs at that a little, his chest suddenly heavy and tight. Cas looks at him, concerned.

 

“Are you--”

“Yeah.” Dean shuffles closer again, Cas relaxing at the proximity this time. Dean’s looking at his knees, face hot and he’s not sure if his voice won’t break. It does, when he speaks. “I am. I really am. You’re here. I’m-- I’m good, Cas. Better than I’ll ever be.” He looks up and suddenly Cas is everywhere; too close, not close enough, his palms gently cupping his face and he kisses Dean, chaste and hesitant and needy.

Dean growls, the sound low in his throat and it startles Cas, who moves back, unaware that this is Dean’s frustration and need and love bottled up over the years finding release; he lunges forward and brings Cas in, crashing his mouth with Cas; he tastes like eggnog and gingerbread and ham and it should be an awful combination but it’s not and Dean wants to drink it all up. Cas wraps his arms around him, fingers tangling in his hair as Dean lifts them up and sits Cas on the long table. Cas is still not very good at this, sloppy and wet and too much teeth and Dean guides him gently, soft kisses to open-mouthed ones to full-on tongue. Dean feels drunk on this, the way he definitely hasn’t been before; Cas’ hands sneak under his shirt and they’re so warm they almost burn his skin in their wake -- almost the way they used to, ages ago, a in imprint of Cas Dean thinks he will never not miss -- as Dean presses forward, pressing their crotches together and they both groan loudly, hardened cocks rubbing through denim. He has no idea how long they stay like this, kissing slower and slower until it’s almost languid, ignoring the dull ache of his cock begging for some friction, but it’s good; getting to know Cas’s mouth and the way his neck feels against his lips after years of wondering. He whispers something sappy and Cas retorts with something even worse, _this is the best fucking Christmas I’ve never had_ and _you don’t ever have to leave again, please don’t leave_ rasped urgently into the kiss; Cas saying, voice straight and true, _I’ve always loved you_ as he presses kisses to Dean’s closed eyelids.

 

“I’ve always wanted you, Cas. God, this is…” Dean mutters and he knows he’s blabbering and it doesn’t matter, really. They got here. Somehow, they got here.

“I want to make love to you, Dean,” Cas says that, voice serious and laden with need and lust, teeth dragging over Dean’s bottom lip. “Here.” He drags Dean down by his lapels, in Cas he wants to suggest bedroom.

“You wanna fuck me on the bear rug in front of the fireplace, Cas? Really feelin’ the Christmas spirit, alright.” Dean laughs into the kiss and reaches for the Cas’ pants, undoing them quickly.

“We bought that carpet at Ikea, Dean. It’s completely synthetic.”

“Shut up.”

So there is no bear rug, not that Dean would like to be spread on a dead animal anyway. There is Cas, however, in nothing but his (Dean’s, actually, properly washed) boxers, kissing his way down Dean’s chest, holding down his wrists because Dean “squirms too much”. Dean can’t complain, warm from the fireplace to his left, even if it’s embers just barely burning. The rug is soft and Cas is all hard, taut lines above him, hips grinding against Dean in a slow, circular motion.

“Cas,” he breathes, heavy, eyes rolling back when Cas’ lips skim on his navel, following the trail of dark hair.

“You’re so beautiful, Dean.” There’s a sincere delight in Cas’ voice, syllables whispered reverently against his skin, soft and tender there. He peels off Dean’s boxers slowly, breath ghosting over the tip of his leaking cock. He kisses the head gently, all pink and swollen and this is nearly enough to keel Dean over the edge.

 

“Well, I’m gonna give you an even better view.” His smirk is wide, eyes radiant as he rolls them over, straddling Castiel’s hips; he bucks them upwards, instinctively, Cas’ clothed cock rubbing against Dean’s erection, eyes widening and lips parting as Dean flexes his body down, crooning. “Better, huh?” 

“Just as good.” Cas runs his hand down Dean’s side, fingers trailing the curve of his ass. Dean can’t take this any longer, his head swimming, high on their kisses, on their bodies aligning together.

Cas’ boxers end up on a lower branch of the christmas tree; conveniently close when Dean puts his fingers in his mouth, coating them with a generous layer of saliva, his hips still gently rocking down on Cas. 

“Wait.” Cas catches his wrist when Dean wants to reach back; he grabs a small gift bag with “CAS” written on the tag with Sam’s handwriting and pulls out a small bottle of lube. 

“I saw Sam packing my gift earlier.” He takes a peek inside. “I believe this is what you’d call a safe sex kit.”

“How thoughtful.” It is, actually, even if Dean is a little miffed that his brother is apparently a psychic again and can see the future. Or maybe it was an innocent, honest to God intention. “We’ll um, only need the lube, I think.”

Dean reaches for it but Castiel takes his hands in his and brings them to his mouth, pressing his mouth to Dean’s reddened knuckles. “Let me.” And Dean does; breathing soft keening noises into Castiel’s collarbone as his friend works him open, first cautious finger breaching the taut ring of muscle, soon followed by a second and Dean’s pushing back on his hand, precome from their cocks, twitching and leaking on their bellies. He always forgets how good this feels, two-- three fingers stretching him from the inside, taking him apart atom by atom. A low growl builds up in Dean’s chest and he knows he’s ready; he breaks their kiss, at last, lips bruised and swollen and mounts Cas, slowly sinking down. His thighs are shaking; he hasn’t done this in a long time and he’s afraid to take it in one smooth motion. Cas is stock-still, hands on Dean’s hips, guiding him downwards and even with closed eyes, Dean knows he’s watching him.

Dean lets out a soft whine when he feels Cas is fully settled inside him, his thick cock throbbing inside, Dean clenching and unclenching around him as relaxes. He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye -- the pain is mostly gone, now, anyway -- sighs when Castiel’s hips twitch as he tries not to move, not to drive in deeper despite being buried to the hilt.

Dean laughs heartily as Cas’ choked gasp when he begins to move, rocking his hips back and forth in a slow, loose motion; bends down to kiss him, moans when Cas grinds up. It’s good, and he tells Cas that; this sensation of being full and ripped apart and put together at the same time, of the heat pooling low in his stomach; the air smells like pine tree and everything is golden in the glow of the fireplace, their fingers tangling together on the floor, flesh slapping against flesh and Dean feels whole again for the first time since never.

They fall asleep in their own sticky mess, illuminated by the colourful glow of Christmas lights. Dean has convinced Cas to put on his new socks in case his feet get old, even though the warmth from the dying out fire is still going strong. Cas is humming a Christmas carol he heard on the radio against his skin, the back of his neck.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Mm.”

“Since you’re a fallen angel, do you think it still was a… holy fuck?”

“Possibly.” 

“Great.” Dean’s grin is twice as wide now, Cas’ warm frame pressed against his back, a shabby, short blanket they found on a chair covering their naked, spent bodies. Cas relaxes soon and his breathing evens out, a solid, warm presence.

 

❆ 

Dean stays up all night and only dozes off before dawn. When he wakes up, Cas is still there, mostly dressed and nursing a cup of coffee, reading one of the books he gave Dean. Sam comes in fifteen minutes later and is mildly scandalized at the sight of Dean eagerly sucking Cas off, a litany of “Dean, Dean, _DeanDeandean”_ echoing through the library. He complains loudly that he has not been naughty this year so what did he do to deserve that? Dean points out -- later, in the kitchen, where Sam contemplates drinking the leftover eggnog to forget -- that, in fact, it’s him and Cas that have been naughty the night before. 

In the afternoon, Dean compels everyone to watch _“It’s a Wonderful Life”_ since neither he nor Cas have seen it-- and, as Cas points out, whispering into Dean’s ear - the title of a movie has never felt so befitting. 

Dean kisses Cas’ temple in confirmation. It _is_ quite wonderful.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I decided to create my own festive atmosphere, due to lack of snow where I live. Dean's at his dorkiest. Cas is Cas. The rest is history.
> 
> Kisses and thanks to Katie, as always, for holding my hand during the whole process.


End file.
